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His low chuckle is the most pornographic noise I’ve ever heard. “Nah. I like you mean.” Hot, wet lips drag along my nape. “You never have to ask me for anything, Sunday. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I feel a ‘but’ coming.”
In one smooth movement, Cass’ hand dips into my panties. “Admitthis,” he cups my pussy, something ferally possessive about it, and I amweak, “is because of me. It’s not hormones. You’re dripping all over me because you wantme.”
I want to shrivel up in a ball of mortification almost as much as I want to mount his hand.
Almost.
I all but whimper, “It’s because of you.”
“Good.” The satisfied noise he makes awards me a rush of gratification, not nearly as rewarding as the slick glide of fingers through my pussy. He presses hard against my clit in tandem with a thrust of his hips, both actions coaxing a gasp out of me. “Because this is always for you.”
Oh, God. I like that a lot. Way more than I should. So much, I want to do something about the pesky layers separating us, properly reacquaint myself with the cock straining to get to me.
“You like knowing you make me hard?” His free hand brackets my throat, coaxing my head back, his mouth hovering right beside my ear. “Been hard for four fucking months, Sunday. Thinking about you, seeing you, talking to you, it’s all pure fucking torture.”
“My bad,” I barely manage to rasp.
“One day,” he rasps right back, “I’m gonna find out if that mouth can still talk shit when it’s wrapped around my cock.”
Today? Please?“Bet I can.”
When Cass retreats, my disappointment is tinged with the hope that he’s proving me wrong. I’m practically vibrating in anticipation as he smooths a hand along my back, gently pushing until I lean forward. Harder pressure makes me bend at the waist, elbows propped against the freezer, my ass flush against his hips. I inhale sharply when he flips my dress up, palms my cheeks with two greedy hands, spreads them in a way that makes me blush and squirm and think about how easy it would be for him to shove his jeans down a few inches and slide inside me.
When he doesn’t, I frown. Groan. Drop my head to my arm and contemplate that polite request I said I wouldn’t do. Wonder what the hell is taking him so long and accidentally ask the words aloud, earning a chuckle and a stinging slap.
His hips shift away from me. His hands move too, coasting down to my upper thighs and coaxing my legs further apart for reasons I don’t understand until I hear the thud of knees hitting the floor and feel a hot, wet tonguelick.
We groan in unison, two equally desperate sounds. “Fuck.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Sunday?” An ass cheek in each hand, he squeezes hard enough to sting—punishment, I guess. “This is what I’ve been missing out on?”
If I was capable of forming words, I would say the same thing. As it dives between my folds, searching for and finding my clit in record time, I can’t believe this capable tongue has been laying around destitute when I could’ve been putting it to work.
God, is it making up for it now.
Cass is relentless. Messy. Lips and teeth and tongue, groans and dirty words and soft praise. When a hand joins the party, I’m done for.
He remembers. Everything I like, he remembers. We spent less than an hour together yet he learned my body better than I have in twenty-eight years. He never thought he’d see me again yet he committed it to memory. How I like hard, consistent pressure but soft, gentle kisses. How one finger wasn’t enough, two was perfect, but three was… My eyes flutter shut. My breaths come quicker, sharper, harder. My entire body trembles. I reach behind me and touch whatever I can—his forearm, his shoulder, until his hand catches mine and guides it between my legs, helping me help him finish me off.
I come so hard, it briefly concerns me because never have I ever felt anything that intense. Like a match striking a flame, I combust, and it stokes Cass to work harder. Only when I physically pull him away does he relent, and it’s reluctant as fuck.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, almost as loud as the internal voice screamingwhat did you just do?I’m panicking. I’m exposed and boneless and incredibly foggy-brained yet still, I have room for panic. The exposed thing, I solve quickly, only slightly hindered by the boneless thing when I straighten and my legs threaten to give out. The panic is actually helping clear the fog, burning it off like a hysteric wildfire, although that does, in turn, feed said panic. That one, I don’t think I can fix myself. I think I need Cass for that. Require his help in a different way.
A hard chest—and a harder something else—press against my back. Cass clutches a fistful of my dress to hold me in place, clearly severely overestimating my ability to run away. “It’s okay,” he says, soft and sincere, a verbal balm to burning dread. “Feel better?”
“Uh-huh.” I swallow. Contemplate a more eloquent response. Come up with, “Thank you,” and promptly want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
“Whatever’s going on up here,” a warm, slightly clammy temple nudges mine, equally warm and clammy, “Stop it.”
Easier said than done. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
“Probably not,” he surprises—disappoints? Relieves?—me by agreeing. “But we did.”
“And now?”
“We handle it like adults.”
